Method in Madness
by minna.bird
Summary: John has two sets of memories - but are the mundane memories real, or the fantastic ones? And if the latter, what in the world has happened to Sherlock, the man at the center of them?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

John couldn't think why something as unremarkable as a smiley face in yellow spray paint should stop him in his tracks.

He'd simply been walking along, holding a polystyrene cup full of hot tea in one hand, on the way from the bus stop to the surgery, when his eye had caught on that particular bit of graffiti. And here he was, two minutes on, still standing stock-still and staring as a nagging feeling of sadness swelled in his gut. _Déjà vu,_ he thought. _I'd swear I've seen this somewhere before._ Instinct told him it was important, that he needed to work out why it was so familiar, but the part of his brain that worried about the rent was telling him to hurry up, he was going to be late.

Reluctantly, he listened, and turned away from the graffiti, but not before taking a picture with the stupidly sleek phone Harry had given him. He'd have a think tonight, if it was still bothering him.

-

When John was safely ensconced in his tiny flat for the night, bad leg propped up on a footstool, he pulled out his phone. On a whim, he'd saved the photo of the yellow smiley face as his wallpaper, a reminder of the strangeness. Where _had_ he seen something like that?

There was a flash of a wall with bold, fancy-looking wallpaper, adorned with a yellow smiley face and bullet holes, but when John tried to examine it, it slipped away. _Ridiculous,_ he told himself, _you don't know anyone who has wallpaper like that – or who would put bullet holes in a wall._ But at the same time, the image was too clear to be from a dream.

_When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth._ Harry had told him that, once, and it had stuck fast in his brain.

The uneasiness niggled at him again. Harry didn't _say_ things like that. But who else could it have been?

The image had to be real somehow. It wasn't as if he didn't forget things.

But this felt _important_. He strained at the corners of his mind, trying to remember where that wall had been, but all he could figure out was that he thought it had happened sometime after his return from Afghanistan. After he had started the blog, even…

Well, that was the solution, wasn't it? Pull up the blog, see if that turned up anything.

He limped the few feet to his desk and opened his laptop. A few clicks brought him to his blog, and he went through the entries, all the way to the beginning. Several posts that simply said things like "nothing" and "pointless"…drinks with the rugby lads…_serial suicides._

His pulse quickened and he looked for the next one, certain for one shining second that it held something riveting, life-changing, only to be puzzled by a short and boring post about bumping into Mike Stamford in the park.

He was sure now that he was missing something important. More had happened that day. He'd bumped into Mike, and he groused about his tiny flat, said he'd wanted to move but had no idea where to find a flatmate…

_And Mike said he knew someone in my situation._

It came, in a flash, and suddenly John remembered.

Sherlock Holmes. The murderous cabbie John had been forced to shoot. The business with the jade hairpins. Finding in Sherlock a flatmate, serial source of bafflement, and something that went beyond best mate. The game…

The pool.

_Moriarty._

-

It was Mycroft who had saved them, though how he had known where to find them and what he would find was still a mystery to John. Just as Sherlock had leveled his gun at the bomb, the red lights had disappeared and a shout had come, "The snipers are down, don't shoot!"

Men in suits had taken Moriarty away in cuffs, and Mycroft's car – sans his PA, for once – had taken Sherlock and John to what turned out to be Mycroft's lavish lodgings. Sherlock had disappeared with Mycroft, and in the days they'd spent at Mycroft's John had seen little of either of them.

On the fifth day, the PA cornered him as he enjoyed a breath of fresh air outside, her BlackBerry hidden away. "I hope you understand, Mr. Watson, that this is a matter of national security. It would be best if you didn't mention this case in your blog."

She spoke directly to him, and the full force of her regard flustered him so much that he found himself stammering, "Of course. Of course, I-I'll forget it ever happened, I'll forget any of it happened."

And then he had sort of wandered off, feeling blank and peculiar and lost, wondering how he had come to be where he was. This memory wasn't one of the newly dug-up ones; his "normal" memories seemed to resume after that, smooth and uninterrupted by mention of Sherlock. John wondered how he had gotten the flat; in his normal memories he had moved into that flat the same day that the other memories said he'd moved into 221B Baker Street.

The surgery with Sarah had been in his normal memories too, though without his having ever asked Sarah out. His normal memories said he'd been fired from there on the day the Baker Street and normal memories converged, and subsequently found a job at a different surgery.

Where _was_ Sherlock? The last night John had seen him had been at the beginning of April; now it was nearly the end of October. Nearly seven months had passed, with no sign of him. John began to have his doubts. What if it was all, somehow, an uncharacteristically vivid dream? Or what if he'd had some sort of – break with reality?

He scrambled for his phone. He'd call Harry. Maybe she'd know something.

She answered on the third ring and said, "This had better be an emergency. I was _sleeping_."

"Sorry, sorry, it's just, do you remember my flatmate? The tall one, kept dragging me off after him while he did detective work?"

Silence on the other end of the line. "What the fuck are you talking about?" she finally asked, her voice flat.

"Nothing, sorry, ignore me, I just…ignore me." John pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, embarrassed.

"You're mental, you do know that?" Harry said, and before he could decide whether he agreed or not, she hung up on him.

Harry didn't remember Sherlock. She'd commented on the blog plenty, he remembered, and called him more than ever after he had moved in at 221B Baker Street. She was always looking for gossip, Harry, and her little brother's life had taken a sharp turn for the interesting after meeting Sherlock. Except that it was looking likely that the recently-discovered memories were, in fact, complete fiction. After all, it was one thing for _one_ person to forget, but two?

John got up and paced, and realized after a moment, with a start, that he was doing so without his cane without any trouble. "Well there's some evidence in favor," he said to himself, and yawned so widely his jaw cracked.

"I'll worry about this in the morning," he decided. "Maybe go to see Lestrade, see what he has to say."

**A/N: **I've got the pool incident down as happening on April 1, and people posting on John and Sherlock's websites up till the 6th of that month wondering what's become of them, then nothing more - something to keep in mind. This fic is for the Sherlock BBC kinkmeme on LJ; someone prompted a _Fire and Hemlock_ fusion kind of thing – basically in this case Sherlock is Tom and John is Polly and so on.

*almost directly quoted from Sherlock's website, The Science of Deduction


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

As it turned out, the first thing John did the next morning wasn't contemplating the mystery of his double memories – it was answering the insistent banging at the front door of his flat.

"God, Mary, I was sleeping," he said when he opened the door, but his tone was light and affectionate. Mary Morstan was a post-Sherlock development, and a frequent interrupter of his lie-ins. Between her short, bright red hair and blinding smile, the sight of her was almost too much at this hour, when all he wanted to do was curl up in his bed and sleep some more.

"I brought breakfast," she said, unrepentant.

"Come in, then," John said. He was already turning to put the kettle on when she plopped the paper bag she was holding onto the table and sat down. Mary, he thought, had come into his life almost directly after Sherlock had left it, in both sets of memories. She'd asked him out, in Tesco's of all places, and they'd been on a few dates, but it never went anywhere. Somehow, and John really wasn't sure how, this had ended in her becoming something like a best mate.

_I suppose that means I've got two of them now,_ John thought, _if I can ever work out what happened to the other one._ He sighed and turned away from the kettle to sit as well. "What did you bring this morning?" he asked.

"I found these Danishes with cream cheese and strawberry and rhubarb jam," she said, opening the bag and tilting it towards him so he could catch a glimpse of buttery braided pastry. John made a show of appreciation, but his heart wasn't really in it, and Mary could tell. "Penny for your thoughts," she said.

He stood up again and crossed to the cupboard, ostensibly to get plates down, but more because he found he couldn't say what he wanted to say while looking Mary in the face. "I think I might be going mad," he said.

"You've always been that," said Mary, with whom he'd shared more than one…not adventure, not compared to what he'd done with Sherlock, but he supposed the term "scrape" worked well enough. The sort of thing you hoped your coworkers never found out about for fear they wouldn't take you seriously.

"No, but these things don't _happen_," John said, taking his time with the plates.

"Is it to do with the disappearing limp?" The plates clattered back into their places in the cupboard, and John spared a moment to be glad he hadn't properly taken them out. Mary had always been perceptive, but with Sherlock on his mind he found this interjection a bit unnerving. He could hear the laugh in her voice when she continued. "Your cane is nowhere in sight, so you've answered the door and gone back and forth across the kitchen – at speed, the last time – without a sign of it. Does it come and go, the limp, or what?"

"No, it's – I don't know. Therapist was right, I suppose." (But then he should have known that for months). "Must be psychosomatic after all."

"No, but you didn't have it before, either," she said, and when he turned to look at her, incredulous at this insight, she smiled at him, chin propped up on one hand. "I, er, might have waited till about the fifth time I saw you at Tesco's to pop the question. Dating, as you already know, is _not_ my strong suit. Anyway, you never had the limp when you were there with that tall bloke. I didn't want to ask about it when you showed up again with the cane, because, again, not my strong suit, but I wondered."

"Wait." John had to sit down. He managed to get to the table before he collapsed. "Wait, you saw Sherlock?"

"Tall, dark hair, sharp dresser?" she asked.

"Thank _God_," said John, and suddenly he was smiling all over his face with relief. When Mary looked at him questioningly, he clarified,

"He's real, I wasn't imagining it after all!"

"What made you think you were?"

"I called Harry after I remembered, but she didn't. Remember, I mean."

"Well…how well did she know him?" Mary asked.

"Not very." John laughed. "But then it's hard to get close to Sherlock. When I first met Lestrade, he told me he didn't know Sherlock any better than I did, and they'd known each other for years."

"Why don't you call this Lestrade bloke?"

"I meant to go see him this morning," John said, "but then you showed up."

"Well, call him now," Mary said, looking as if she'd come over and physically force him to dial the number if he wouldn't do so on his own.

John pulled out his mobile and found, to his relief, that he still remembered Lestrade's number. He'd begun memorizing numbers out of sheer self-defense when he'd moved in with Sherlock and found his mobile disappeared with Sherlock more often than not. "Hello?" came Lestrade's voice over the phone.

"Hi, this is John Watson, I'm calling about…"

"Sorry, who?" said Lestrade, sounding rather weary under his snappish tone.

John's heart fell, but he persisted doggedly. "I'm calling about Sherlock Holmes."

There was a long pause, and then John could hear Lestrade exhaling in a whoosh. "I thought that was another of his mad ideas, but there actually is a strange man calling for him. I'm to give a message." John can hear the amused resignation in his voice.

"What's…the message?" John asked after a moment.

"'You are not, under any circumstances, to attempt to contact Mycroft. You will be placing my life in considerable danger if you do. Avoid my brother at all costs.'" Lestrade paused. "It's not him being dramatic. It really _is_ dangerous. I don't know who you are, but obviously Sherlock trusts you. That's rare, so _don't_ mess it up."

"Well?" Mary asked, raising her eyebrows.

"The bad news is, Lestrade doesn't remember me. The good news is that Sherlock seems to be alive, and apparently does remember me. He says to avoid his brother, could be dangerous for him if I don't." John couldn't help smiling. "In danger" was a constant state of being when Sherlock was around. Much though he had moaned sometimes…he didn't really want it any other way.

Sherlock being in danger without him, however, was simply not on.

His smile disappeared and he groaned as a realization hit him.

"What?" Mary looked concerned.

"I can't go out. Mycroft will see me – he's got access to CCTV – and if he does, he'll know I remember about Sherlock. The limp's gone, and he's bound to notice if I fake one."

"He is?"

"You don't know the Holmes brothers," John said. "They notice _everything._"

"But even if he sees you, can't you just avoid him anyway?"

"The first time I met Mycroft, he called me on a public telephone, stalked me with the CC cameras, and sent a black car and his personal assistant to collect me and take me to an abandoned warehouse, where he proceeded to interrogate me about my relationship with his brother."

Mary eyed him suspiciously, and he laughed.

"I'm not making it up. It sounds…insane, I know, but it's all true. That, by the way, was the night I moved in. The same night, I was forced to shoot a cabbie who was attempting to kill Sherlock, who then made me laugh at a crime scene while wearing a shock blanket."

Mary smirked. "I can see why you like him." John's brow furrowed. Where in that story had there been anything that should make him like his flatmate? He had lived it, and he was pretty sure any sane person would have run, hard, in the other direction after the events of that night. Mary elaborated. "He's even madder than you are."

At that, John had to laugh. It was absolutely true. His flatmate, the madman – and John following along on every ridiculous case. Life really was stranger than fiction; he, more than anyone, knew that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Mary had left long ago for work. It was his day off, so he had amused himself for a while with watching crap telly and trying to imagine what Sherlock would say (pathetic), and somehow he had fallen back asleep. It was about half past noon, according to his phone, when the knocking came at his door. _Can't be Mary,_ he thought groggily, and answer the door.

It was a stranger, hunched over inside his hooded anorak, with masses of gingery hair and beard that all seemed to flow together. "Can I interest you in a magazine subscription?" he asked in a nasal Cockney accent, shoving a sheet of prices at him. John was trying blearily to think of a polite way to say he did not, in fact, want a magazine subscription when the salesman shoved him into his flat. John tried to fight back, but hand-to-hand fighting was not his forte and, standing straight, the salesman had a distinct height advantage. They struggled, John losing ground rapidly, until the salesman hissed, "John, stop it, it's me, Sherlock."

John let go so quickly he ended up sprawled on the floor. Sherlock crouched next to him, tugging off the fake beard. His grey eyes, visible now without the shadow of Sherlock's hood, seemed to rake over him. "Are you all right, John?" Sherlock whispered, concern in his voice.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. A word of advice, next time you want inside a friend's flat, just ask."

"I couldn't be sure there weren't people watching. No one can know I'm here." Sherlock helped John to his feet and shut the door. As soon as it was closed, John found himself, quite without any sort of conscious decision, laughing and hugging Sherlock. Sherlock simply stood stiffly for a moment, as if shocked – John didn't blame him; Sherlock tearing the Semtex-rigged jacket from his body at the pool had been, possibly, their most intimate moment – but then he wrapped his arms tentatively around John. It lasted only a moment (breathless, on John's part), and then Sherlock stepped back and said, in a low voice, "My life is in danger."

"I got that," said John, "Lestrade told me. What sort of danger? What do you need me to do? Sherlock? _Sherlock_."

Sherlock was staring at the floor, motionless. Finally, he looked up, his bright eyes suddenly shadowed, and said, "I can't tell you."

John frowned, but was careful to keep his voice quiet. "Sherlock, you're not going off alone again. For God's sake, look what happened last time, not to mention the time before _that_."

"You came for me, both times," Sherlock said, with a hint of a smile. "John, this is one secret I cannot tell you."

John found himself whisper-shouting into Sherlock's face. "You bloody well will tell me this secret. I just found you, d'you think I want to lose you again already?" He stopped and tried to move back – he'd said too much – but Sherlock's hand, cupped around the back of his neck, stopped him.

"Don't you understand? I can't _tell_ you," Sherlock said in his ear, in a voice that made John shiver, "but you've always been irritatingly adept at following me when I try to leave you behind."

John wasn't sure who bridged the gap first. All he knew was that Sherlock's lips were on his and it was just…more than he'd ever thought it would be. His hands closed on the ridiculous mass of fake ginger hair Sherlock wore, and he laughed into the kiss.

When Sherlock pulled back, his eyes like mirrors, he said – in a voice John recognized as the one he used whenever he was contemplating a fascinating experiment – "Just think, we wasted so much time not doing this. I'm glad I had the chance before I – ah." He stopped, closed his eyes, and kissed John again.

It was some time before John managed to pull his attention away from the frankly mind-melting feel of Sherlock's lips and hands and body (albeit muffled by the anorak) against his. When he did, he whispered sharply, "Before you what?"

"Leave," Sherlock said flatly. "Which reminds me, I really must."

Despite John's protestations, it seemed he was all no-nonsense detective on a case now. He replaced the fake beard, retreated under his hood, and slumped back into the stance that hid his height somewhat. He was nearly out the door when he turned and said, almost as an afterthought, "Remember what I said. I've always thought you had a talent for holding on stubbornly and refusing to let go. Don't prove me wrong."

And he was gone, before John could voice any of the thousand things he wanted so desperately to tell Sherlock.

He only allowed himself a moment of regret before dashing to his room to grab his gun out of the bedside table. In another minute he was out the door after Sherlock.

Sherlock led a merry dance through London, and John had to wonder if that was for Mycroft's benefit or his. He still wasn't sure where Mycroft fit in, or what he was supposed to do, but all he knew was that he had always been willing to risk his life to save Sherlock's.

Eventually Sherlock stopped and shed his disguise, carefully positioning himself so none of the CC cameras could see him, and John followed him a little way farther to Paddington Station. Mycroft appeared then, and Sherlock greeted him with what John can only imagine is coldness (or, more likely, petulance). The woman who was not named Anthea stood passive between them, tapping away at her BlackBerry. John remembered the only time he ever saw her without it, and a jolt went through him. He'd promised to forget about "all of it." Had he somehow signed away his memories of Sherlock without knowing it?

He pushed the idea away – it was interesting, but there were more important things to attend to just now – and slipped into the crowd, trying to get closer without being seen. He wished he'd thought to disguise himself, but it wasn't as if he _had_ anything lying around that would work as a disguise.

He did, finally, manage to get closer, just as Sherlock left Mycroft and his PA, striding quickly towards the ticket office. John followed, hoping neither of Sherlock's companions would see him while his back was turned. He purchased the same ticket as Sherlock – never mind the cost, some things were simply more important – and kept on his tail, surprised to find that when Sherlock met back up with his brother, Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson had joined the group. Mycroft and the PA, Sherlock and Lestrade's team, and John boarded the train at Platform Three, a strange, staggered procession.

When he was properly on the train, he found that Mycroft and his assistant had disappeared, and he, Sherlock and the police officers were the only occupants of the train car.


End file.
